I Will Never Be Royal
by steelgray
Summary: It's all Sam's fault, really, and Dean will believe that to his dying day. Or, how being hunters actually worked out for the Winchesters. For once. Royalty AU. Destiel/Sabriel.
1. Winter is Beautiful, Unless You're Cold

**Welcome! If this seems at all familiar, that's because it is. It's a rewrite, one I a) plan on writing with more skill and b) should actually finish. Now, on with the story!**

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><p>White snowflakes fell around a pair of brothers, the light of a scummy inn the only thing that took the darkness of nightfall away. They shivered as the cold stone of the building bit into their backs, snowflakes fell on their unprotected faces, and the far-off yells that could only be associated with a dingy alleyway were heard.<p>

Sam and Dean Winchester were orphans, though not in the usual sense. Their mother had died in a fire, it was true, but their absentee father still lived, a drunkard who'd run off as soon as his youngest, Sam, had a major falling-out with him. Granted, his absence hadn't been sorely missed, as John had usually been unconcerned about his parenting duties. Dean had really been the one to bring up his younger brother, resulting in the two staying together, even though John had expected Dean to go with him.

"The bar has heating, you know," the elder said, rubbing his bare hands together to try and generate some warmth.

Sam shook his head, "It's loud, rowdy, and we don't have much money, certainly not enough to be able to spend on alcohol. Besides, you always manage to get yourself into a fight."

"It's too bad that the game market has dried up," Dean continued, ignoring the quip about his temper, "But it's the dead of winter now; there's nothing to hunt until springtime."

Sam nodded, "There's no use in being a good shot unless there's something to shoot."

Collapsing into silence at the lack of conversation and the frigid cold, the two sat huddled against the building as a heavy winter wind swept through, swirling the falling snow into vortex-like shapes.

Hesitant to break the quiet, Sam spoke softly. "Do you think he'll get better?"

Dean had strained to hear his younger brother's whisper, and answered curtly, "He's fine, Sam. You should be more worried about us, rather than him. He always makes it."

Silence fell again as the taller man made no effort to correct Dean, instead moving closer to him in an attempt to conserve heat as the carriages swept wind their way, their wealthy inhabitants hidden behind heavy curtains.

The two were interrupted as a jeering voice rang through the night, echoing along the alleyway. "Look at the peasants!"

The brothers, well-used to such treatment, as all the poor were, didn't react.

A group of wealthy young men approached them, their ringleader appearing to be no older than twenty, with a shock of red hair and a bottle in his hand.

"What?" one of them mocked, "Are you deaf? That wouldn't surprise me, poor filth like you."

Dean colored, hands clenching as he was sorely tempted to reach for the blade in his back pocket. Sam laid a hand on his arm, a silent warning.

"Why am I surprised?" the ringleader mocked, "Not just filth, but fags as well!"

Dean spoke at that, voice a low growl, "Brothers."

"It speaks!" The comment drew a round of laughter from the group.

Dean, unable to stand any more, rose and drew his knife. "And it's telling you assholes to shut up."

"Dean," Sam protested, "They aren't worth it; let's just go."

"No, no," the redheaded man's eyes sparkled as he unsheathed his sword, "Let us see who wins this: the peasant with a rusty pocketknife," he paused dramatically, "or the heir to the Earldom."

As the other man advanced, making a show of twirling his weapon millimeters from Dean's face, the Winchester stood his ground, smirked, and spoke, "There's just one thing."

"And what's that?" while swift, the sweep of his sword at Dean's legs was nimbly avoided with a quick jump.

"It's not rust," Dean's eyes gleamed dangerously, "It's blood."

Just as the two were preparing to really begin fighting, circling around one another, a third voice rang out in the distance, making the attention-seeking youth quickly drop his weapon.

Dean didn't move to strike back, though his knife was still pointed at the other, ready to attack in the case of trickery.

"Jasper Penbrandle," a stern voice said, surprising the brothers when the man appeared. They'd expected someone much older, but he seemed to be around their age, and he wore a heavy beige coat, an odd look considering what was currently fashionable. However, he had the look of a good man.

The redhead turned, rolling his eyes, "Oh, it's you."

"Leave them," a quick pause for emphasis, "Alone."

"The beggar boy insulted me," Jasper said, crossing his arms, "Was I simply supposed to stand there and do nothing to defend my honor?"

The man gave him a look that spoke volumes, "Just like the last one, I'm sure. You should see about that ego of yours, it's very sensitive to the opinions of those who you seem to think less  
>of."<p>

His face reddened, "You aren't the boss of me! I'm…"

"I know what you are, but what am I?" a steely smile. "You'll do well to remember that I technically am the boss of you. You do, of course, remember who you are talking to?"

When no response came forth from Jasper or his cronies, the regal man spoke, "In that case, you and your lot may leave… this time."

Heeding the dismissal, the group dispersed, grumbling all the way around the corner.

He turned to the two of them, "Are you okay?"

"Oh, peachy," Dean spat back, but pocketed his knife, "Can't even sit down without those people after us."

He cocked his head, "I don't see how this particular occasion relates to fruit."

Dean shook his head, clearly unwilling to admit that anything was wrong. "Thanks, but we're fine."

"You're blue in the face!" the other protested, looking unconvinced.

"Well, not everyone can afford to live like you, okay?"

"Dean," Sam admonished, glancing apologetically at the man Dean appeared determined to offend, "Let's go."

"And go where?" Dean finally exploded, the combination of the near-fight and the odd butterflies in his stomach due to the man's presence combusting, "Go where?"

"You can come with me," the man burst out.

The brothers looked at the suddenly red-faced man in shock. "Excuse me?" Sam finally questioned, unable to believe his ears.

"Come with me," he said, again, as if to emphasize the fact that he'd spoken the first time, that it hadn't just been his imagination.

Instantly on the defensive, Dean spoke, "And why would we want to do that? You could be an axe-murderer for all we know."

He had to reflect on that. Why were the two so different? Even if he couldn't answer that, he spoke anyway. "You aren't the usual, and that intrigues me."

"We really aren't that interesting," Sam said, almost bashfully.

"Are you saying that you find us better than the common filth?" Dean questioned brutally, jaw working, "Gee, thanks a lot."

"You're welcome?" the other said, looking confused yet again.

"And here we thought you were socially inept," Sam muttered to Dean, "But I still don't trust him."

"Did you think I did?" Dean said.

Turning to the stranger, he spoke, "We don't know you, and you don't know us, and I really don't want to be some rich noble's plaything, so no. That's a definite no."

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><p><strong>See that I did something stupid, made an error, or, goodness forbid, you actually <em>liked <em>this fic, please drop me a review! I live and breathe for them. Just so you know it's true, I'm going to sacrifice these delicious cupcakes to you guys, and, if there are reviews, I should live to post the next chapter, sans this deliciousness. :D I hoped you enjoyed!**

**xoxo Brenda**


	2. The Loyalty of a Brother

**I'm sorry for this, but not really. It's for the story, darn it! Enjoy!**

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><p>Sam coughed, speech clouded, "I should've known that you'd get in fight no matter where you were."<p>

"That wasn't even my fault!" Dean protested, kicking aside a bit of garbage as they walked out of the alleyway, off to find a place to sleep forth night.

"Does it matter?" Sam questioned, turning away to sneeze, "Dangerous either way."

"As nice as your concern is, princess, I was fine," Dean waved him off with a laugh, smirking.

"You wouldn't have been, not without that other man. It was at least six to two!"

"We would've been fine, Sammy. I'm a good swordsman and so are you. Those pansies wouldn't have stood a chance."

"I'm glad we didn't have to find out if your hypothesis was right."

"Ye of little faith," Dean scoffed. "Where are we going anyway?"

They'd come upon the avenue. By now it was nearing one in the morning, and the streets, aside from the beggars and the occasional drunk, were nearly empty.

"I'm not sure," Sam sniffled. "Preferably somewhere a bit warmer."

"Gee, that's easy to—are you okay, Sammy?"

The other man clutched his stomach, hunched over, breaths sharp and short as his jaw clenched in pain. "I'm fine," he grunted, waiting for the pain to subside.

"Bullshit," the elder replied, concerned, "Come on, there's a park over there. Luckily, it's a clear night, besides the snow, but even that's slowing down. We'll rest for tonight. If you're not feeling better soon, I'll go for medicine."

"We can't aff—"

"It doesn't matter," Dean replied, "I'll bet on some dog fights or something. I'll figure it out. Come on, now. There's no use staying out here."

They trudged on, eventually finding solace in a couple of unoccupied park benches. While uncomfortable and cold, the snow had stopped falling, and the stars twinkled on their black canvas. And until morning broke again, the two slept soundly.

The next morning dawned bright and early, the temperature up by twenty degrees, positively toasty for a cold winter's day. Dean, grumbling about his aching muscles, sat up, blinking at the sunlight as he checked to make sure his knife and what little money he had was still on his person. Then, he rose to check on his brother.

"Sammy?" Dean poked the sleeping man, who looked decidedly uncomfortable on the bench, which looked tiny when compared to the tall brother. "Sammy, wake up."

He cracked one bleary eye open, "What?" he grumbled, batting Dean's hand away, "I'm tired."

"How do you feel?" he asked with some trepidation.

"Fine," but then an odd expression came over the other's face, and he jumped to the side, heaving up the previous day's dinner. "Maybe not so fine," he admitted sheepishly. "I feel rubbish."

"I'll go and get you a cup of tea," Dean suggested, "Maybe some strong coffee?"

"No coffee, but I'll take the tea," Sam replied as the other felt his burning forehead. "I feel a bit better now, anyway."

But that feeling didn't last long. By nightfall, he was writhing on the cold park bench, having not been able to move from it for the entirety of the day. Dean had gotten him at least five cups of tea, to no avail. Sam's fever had risen, his aches had increased, and his throat was so raw that he'd begun coughing up blood. Weak and feverish, he'd refused Dean's offer of medicine, though the other had gone after it anyway. He'd cursed when he'd found out that the one time he needed the gentleman, the apothecary owner had gone on vacation, leaving the shop dark and closed.

"Maybe the tea isn't strong enough, Sammy. I'll go to the bar across the way, maybe a shot or two of whiskey will help abate the pain."

Sam grunted, dizzy, too far gone to protest his brother spending more money.

Dean trotted quickly over to the establishment after checking to make sure that his brother would be okay alone, at least for a few minutes.

The entrance was brightly lit by two somewhat-dusty lanterns, but, overall, the establishment looked clean. Dean didn't want to risk making his brother sicker by getting him a dirty drink, even if it meant paying a bit more.

Though out of place among the more fashionable crowd, the Winchester stood his ground, signaling the bartender over. "Shot of whiskey."

Paying the man and dumping the drink into his own skein, Dean made to leave, almost freezing at the sight of the man from the night before, still coat-bedecked, standing in the doorway of the bar, a short man in brilliant red at his side.

Smothering the odd feeling of jealousy, Dean muttered a curt, "Excuse me," and moved to walk past them, eyes focused straight ahead, back ramrod-straight.

"Sir," the man said, "Pardon me, but have I met you before?"

"Perhaps," Dean said, "But I'm very busy, you see, so I'd appreciate it if you let me through. I have no time for conversation tonight."

"Of course," he said, moving out of the way, "My apologies for inconveniencing you."

Dean nodded as he stepped outside the door, immediately rushed over to the other side of the street, ignoring the whispers from those outside the building.

"Sam!" he called, "Sam, I've got you something to drink."

He shook the other, whose eyes were closed, with increasing fervor he failed to awaken. Panicking, Dean felt for a pulse, finding one, however weak.

"He needs to see a doctor," a voice said from behind him, making Dean yelp and leap away, heart hammering.

"Come on," the other said, impatiently, as Dean stared at him, failing to move, "Come on! He's very sick; if he doesn't see a doctor soon, he may not live to."

That blunt statement sent Dean back to present, and he, uncharacteristically weakly, said, "Let's go then."

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><p><strong>How did you like it? Please let me know; reviews are nice! I'll give you apple strudel :D<strong>

**xoxo**

**Brenda**


	3. Anything for Family

**Here's another update for you! (Fanfiction was having some issues, so it's a bit late, but enjoy anyway!)**

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><p>He gave Dean a quick nod. "Excellent. I'll send for a carriage."<p>

"Who are you anyway?" Dean asked, pent-up frustration and worry making him even more irritable, "That your power overrides that of an Earl?"

The man, who'd just sent a paperboy after their ride, smiled. "Castiel. Castiel Novak, at your service."

"Oh," the color abruptly drained from Dean's face, even as he desperately tried to play off his shock, "No one too important, then."

Dean's mind was whirling. If Sam were awake, he'd have been yelling about how stupid Dean was, to be so rude to someone of such standing. He could've gotten himself hanged, many times over at that!

"Not at all," Castiel agreed, his chuckle interrupting the Winchester's inner turmoil. "I'm one of the youngest, so it's really just a title."

On the inside, he sighed. As was common in most of the commoners he'd told about his heritage, he'd seen the shock and fear in Dean's eyes when he'd told him. The panic as they reconsidered every word they'd said, completely changing their opinion of him and how he should be treated, just by hearing his name.

"What happened to him?" he asked, trying to change the subject by nodding at the unconscious gentleman on the park bench, whose pale face foretold nothing good. Softly, he asked, "How did he get sick?"

"My brother, Sam, started feeling poorly last night, like he had a cold or stomach flu, nothing serious. It started getting worse in the morning, and I tried to help him, but the apothecary wasn't open. There wasn't much I could do but hope that his fever would break."

"I see," Castiel murmured, "I'm sorry that this happened, Mr.…?"

"Winchester. Dean Winchester, Sire," Dean replied, sounding near nervous, as if giving his name would get him in some sort of trouble.

"No need for that formality, Mr. Winchester. Just Castiel will suffice."

"Likewise, then," Dean looked up at him, "It's only fair."

"If you insist."

The carriage suddenly pulls up beside them, led by a team of four elegant dappled grey Arabian horses, the carriage itself a lavish royal blue, finished with gold plating. A servant opens the door, and the prince, to Dean's surprise, helps him lift the heavy dead weight of his brother into the carriage.

Once that is settled, Castiel thanks the servant, and they settle down into the lush leather chairs, speeding off into the night.

Dean peers out of the fine silk curtains as the coat-wearing man, who sits beside him, busies himself with other matters. Sam lies across from them, a line of moisture running down his temple as he occasionally whimpers, still dead to the world.

"Where are you taking us?" Dean finally asks.

"We're off to the castle. It's too late for any other doctor to take patients, and we have better facilities anyway. You, of course, are welcome to stay as long as it takes for your brother to recover," Castiel replies, nonchalantly handing Dean a heavy wool blanket, while covering the other Winchester in a similar one, tucking in the edges and smoothing over the wrinkles.

"You cannot be serious!" Dean bursts out, shocked, "Surely there's a doctor that'll see us here!" he lifts his chin, "We're not the type to be indebted to anyone."

"Consider it a gift between friends, then," he replies, "And please do put that blanket on, Dean, you're positively blue in the face."

Reluctantly, the other man does so, still questioning the prince. "Surely you don't do this for any sick peasant you see. If I may be so blunt, what are your motives?"

"You see, Dean, that's not an easy question to answer, at least to you. If I offer up the answer to be generosity, then you shall wonder at why; however, if I say that I would like servants, which, to be clear, I do not, you shall, rightfully so, claim that I am using you. So, instead, I offer a question in return, what do you think my motives are?"

"If I'm thinking positively, I suppose that it's the former," he eventually murmurs, caught by the prince's argument.

They lapse into silence at that, and Castiel takes the time to think himself. He's always considered himself a good person, yet, alongside all of his brothers, not one of them had ever helped a near stranger so directly, and never someone like the Winchester brothers, who found trouble at every turn. If anything, Castiel wonders if he's lost his mind. There had just been something… enigmatic about the two that made him want to ease their suffering, especially the elder, who looked like he'd suffered the weight of the world in just the few short years of his existence. To be completely honest with himself, he doesn't know why he feels such a need to protect them, just them, out of all of the other commoners who'd suffered the same, maybe worse. He just doesn't know.

Suddenly, the carriage jerks to a stop, their footman opening the door to bring in the cold of winter.

"Thank you, Haydn," Castiel said as the uniformed man bows, "Come on in, Dean, we've carried your gigantic brother far enough. Haydn?"

The other man nods, and, together with the driver, carries the younger Winchester behind the two.

Dean's eyes widen in shock as he lifts his worried gaze away from his brother to look at the structure before him.

The castle.

Grand, majestic, and beautiful could only begin to describe the beauty of the architecture in front of them.

The long marble pathway leading up the magnificent building is lit by a multitude of lanterns, and the gardens are on full display at the sides, pruned back, ready to emerge in the spring, framing large stone gargoyles and silvery-gold flags.

The humongous place has two towers, besides the large oak door, which is surrounded by an abundance of servants, ladies-in-waiting, and dignitaries, who bow at their entrance, holding their tongues despite their curiosity about the strange newcomers, especially at the late hour.

The interior of the castle is no less splendid than the outside. Rich tapestries, paintings, and golden candlesticks line the room, a rich red velvet rug leading up to two winding staircases patterned with rich line-work and expensive decoration.

"Let's take your brother up to our healing wing, shall we?" Castiel's voice is hushed, but the main room, Dean quickly discovers, is an echo chamber in its own right.

He whispers back, "We shall."

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><p><strong>You know the old adage: a happy writer writes better and faster. So please do review; I don't know if you guys like it if you don't review! So do it. DO IT! I have cake for reviewers :D<strong>

**xoxo Brenda**


	4. See Something You Like?

**Hope you enjoy!**

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><p>The two, still trailed by a comatose Sam, who'd been transferred to a sheet, went up several flights of stairs, past numerous bedrooms, courtrooms, and a library so big that it took up an entire floor, until they reached the healing wing.<p>

The wing, while luxurious, was much more understated than the rest of the castle, with white stone walls, many washbasins, and perfectly ordered, pressed white sheets over cot-like beds.

Once Sam was laid down, Castiel calls for one of his doctors, whom he tells Dean is the best available in the entire kingdom, with some pride.

"Healer Poratiory," he said, "We apologize for the lateness of the hour, but Mr. Winchester's brother is very sick."

The healer, a gray-haired man with a trimmed beard and kind eyes, turned to Dean, "What are his symptoms?"

"Fever, coughing, sneezing, nausea," Dean listed off, "And of course, faintness. Do you know what's wrong with him?"

"I will very shortly," the doctor replied confidently.

And sure enough, not five minutes later, he had a prognosis for Sam.

"While he's unconscious, it's very hard to tell what's wrong with him, but I'm fairly confident that he just has a very severe cold of some sort, and those are treated similarly. You were right to bring him to me this quickly; it could've gotten more serious than it already was. For right now, I'm prescribing sleep, warmth, good food, and medicine. Good night, Mr. Winchester, Sire," with a quick bow, the doctor was gone.

Castiel looked after him sympathetically, "Poor man; someone's always waking him up at all hours of the night. Never gets much sleep, I daresay, but he's had a lot more time than most to perfect his practice."

Dean hummed noncommittally, clearing his throat before, very unwillingly, saying his thanks.

"It's no issue at all," Castiel replied, leading him out of the room, "I was glad to help. Now, I'll see if one of the maids is awake to show you to a room."

They walked in silence until Castiel asked Dean what he and his brother did for a living.

"In the summertime Sam and I usually sell game at the market," Dean answered.

Something clicked. If he weren't so good at schooling his features into a mask of indifference, Castiel's mouth would've been hanging open.

_That _was why the two were so different than the rest; he'd met them before! The memory flooded back into his mind in a whirlwind:

_He'd been with Gabriel that day, a few years ago. They'd gone out, tired of the castle, and wanting to see some fun. It'd been blisteringly hot that day, and tempers were running high, as evidenced by the number of fights he'd seen, though most of it was just enraged bluster; it was too hot for proper fighting. They'd been prowling the market nearest the castle, where most stands sold petty trinkets: jewelry, pottery, and the like._

_One of them had been very different, and, in comparison to the other stalls, very busy. It was a game stall, full of furs and meats, from what he'd been able to decipher, as there was a large crowd about the area, which obstructed his view. Most had been women, but there were also a few men clustered about it, most of them tittering and laughing, highly unusual for a _game _stall, as those were usually a controlled mess of blood and organs._

"_Let's see what that's all about," Gabriel had suggested, nodding his head in the direction of the business, always ready to see something unusual._

_Castiel had acquiesced, and the pair began walking in the direction of the tent. The sight had been shocking, for a castle-dweller anyway, where propriety was expected at each and every turn in each of the elegantly decorated passageways._

_Two young men, both tall, were working away busily. The taller of the two was carefully cutting some part of a deer, brows narrowed in concentration as his fingers worked the knife with impressive skill._

_The blood on his hands should've been disgusting enough for many eyes to draw away, but many of the crowd still congregated around the young man, asking questions in flirtatious tones, which he answered with a wide smile and a flash of sparkling brown eyes. When buyers, both male and female, tried to haggle with him, as was expected at markets, his face fell and those eyes grew wide. Every time, the buyer agreed to his price, buying nearly exorbitant sums of his wares at high, but, from what he could tell, fair, prices._

_The other man was much more… overt. He was working with furs, and had his own method to attract a crowd. It seemed impossible, at least to Castiel, to sell _furs _of all things on a hot, humid day like this, yet the man managed._

_Of course, Castiel thought, eyes involuntarily drifting downwards, the fact that he'd stripped down to just a white shirt, which, due to the heat, emphasized a toned torso, helped._

_Castiel had been about to move on, but, altogether suddenly, a pair of bright green eyes met his, coupled with a smirk and almost filthy wink, like the man had known that he'd been about to leave, and Castiel had been struck motionless._

"_See something you like?" the man gestured to his wares, but the smirk widened._

_Castiel fought the red he was sure was staining his cheeks, thoughts a jumbled mess of logical thought, where he knew that the man had used that line a million times, and attraction, where no coherent words could be formed._

_He aimed to speak coolly, completely unaffectedly, with a definite, resounding _no_, because furs in the summertime were a ridiculous idea and he already had a multitude of them anyway._

_However, only a stuttered, "Y-Yes, how much is that one?" came out._

_The man held up a soft-looking white fur, "The rabbit, sir?"_

_He'd look silly if he responded negatively now, wouldn't he? "Yes. How much is it?"_

"_This one's the prize of the hunt, see what as pristine, snowy white it is? Can't find anything like that anywhere," the man said proudly, "I couldn't ask less than… forty."_

_The rational part of Castiel's mind was scandalized. Forty was obscenely high, even if it _was _the best. But as Castiel raised his head from looking at the fur to tell the vendor so, he was struck by those green eyes again, raised questioningly._

"_I'll take it," he'd said, handing over the money._

_The green-eyed man had grinned at him, "Thank you very much, sir. You won't be disappointed with that one come wintertime!"_

_Even as he'd dragged his brother away, who seemed preoccupied with the other vendor and was holding a rather large package of venison, he hadn't been able to get those green eyes out of his head._

_And it was true; Castiel hadn't been disappointed with the fur._

Castiel, however, made no mention of his realization, "That's nice. My brother Gabriel and I usually go to the there, too; my other brothers are usually abroad doing something or the other, so it's usually just us at home. Oh!" he spotted a maid, "Miss Marioff, would you show my dear friend to a guest room? The East Wing, if you would."

The blonde maid's blue eyes widened from their sleepy haze, "The East Wing, Sire?"

Castiel nodded his head firmly. "Yes. Is that an issue?" the steely note came back to his voice.

"Not at all!" she protested quickly, shaking her head.

"Good." He turned to Dean, "Very well, I shall see you in the morning. Any concerns or requests may be directed to any of my staff, but in the meantime, goodnight."

"Goodnight," Dean replied, and, in a flash, the man was gone.

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><p><strong>Sincerely begging for reviews. Seriously, guys! This is a rewrite, so most of the reviews are from before-don't believe the number, it lies! I need honest feedback on the rewrite because it's incredibly different from the original. So, please, review! I'll give you your choice of chocolates :D<strong>

**xoxo**

**Brenda**


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